The Last Will and Testament of Sherlock Holmes
by Niqi
Summary: Sherlock left a will behind after the fall, and it seems he was more sentimental than he let on.


I came across a will for the canon Sherlock Holmes and felt the need to update it for the BBC version. And I couldn't stop myself imagining John's reactions. This is the result.

* * *

John was reluctant to attend the reading of Sherlock's will for the understandable reason that it meant acknowledging in some capacity that he was dead. It was bound to be depressing as hell. And yet, there was a part of him that was also eager, perhaps morbidly. Sherlock was gone but a piece of him remained undiscovered by John. More pieces of him might lay undiscovered, scattered across notebooks that John had never read, but it felt to John that after this there would be nothing new of Sherlock anymore; that these would be last words from Sherlock he'd ever hear. He intended to hang on every word.

There were two chairs in front of the desk where Mycroft was seated. Mrs. Hudson took the one on the right and John took the one on the left on account of the limp that had returned. The only other people in the room were Lestrade and Molly. John tried to ignore their pitying looks. There was an exchange of pleasantries, which John mostly tuned out, but Mycroft was a Holmes and so he quickly got to the heart of the matter and opened the will. John had ears for nothing else as Mycroft started reading words that had been composed by Sherlock, a miracle in this world barren of him, like fresh air after suffocation.

"'I give and bequeath unto my devoted friend and associate, Dr. John H. Watson, often tried, sometimes trying, but never found wanting in loyalty;'" and damn it all to hell John was already crying. How could someone who had so railed against sentiment write words like that? "'my mentor against the lures of addiction whose efforts were well-intentioned but ultimately futile, - '" Ultimately futile? What the hell did that mean? "'my indispensable counterpart and conductor of light, - '" _Damn it Sherlock you knew there were going to be people around, did you set out with the goal of making me sob in front of them?_ "'the perfect pacifier of my wounded ego and too tactful to whisper 'Norbury' in my ear when necessary...'" Mycroft trailed off and glanced up at John, a bewildered look on his face. John felt the need to explain.

"He, erm," he said, his voice cracking to his embarrassment. He cleared his throat. "He told me that if he ever got too over-confident in his abilities, or he wasn't giving a case the effort and attention it deserved, I should whisper 'Norbury' in his ear and he'd consider himself obligated to start behaving appropriately." Just like that. He had trusted John's judgment that much.

Mycroft nodded and continued. "'the ideal listener and audience for my deductions which others might have deemed showing off or a mere sham;'" John felt a shock at the seemingly prophetic mention of the idea that others might think him a fraud. "'the faithful blogger to whose literary efforts – despite my occasional unkindly gibes – I owe whatever little fame I have enjoyed; in short, to the one true friend I have ever had,'" and John couldn't help it anymore, he gave a terrible choking sob and buried his face in one of his hands. _Fuck you, Sherlock, fuck you, you're the only true friend I've ever had as well so you can't just leave me like this, you can't, you complete arse_. Mycroft patiently waited for John to recover himself and give a halfhearted gesture to continue. "'the sum of 5,000 pounds; also the choice of any books in my personal library, including my commonplace books and the complete file of my cases, published and unpublished.'" Mycroft looked up and John nodded once. John felt utterly indifferent to what Sherlock had bequeathed to him - he felt certain that Sherlock's true gift had been that beautiful and utterly sentimental tribute to John that had been the description of him, and maybe Mycroft understood that.

"'To my landlady (not my housekeeper) Mrs. Hudson,'" Mycroft continued, and John smiled, "'my supply of "herbal soothers," which can be found in my medicine cabinet in the bottle marked "Ibuprofen."'" The smile slid off John's face, but he looked up to see Mrs. Hudson looking very touched, her eyes shining with tears, and maybe it was all right that Sherlock had kept some _herbal soothers_.

"'To Molly Hooper, all of my science equipment, including my microscopes, beakers, test tubes, and protective eyewear; any in-progress experiments I may have left behind; and my scientific notebook including completed and future experiments, in the hope that she will carry on my scientific work and the knowledge that there is no person better suited to the task.'" John's eyes softened at that, but he looked up at Molly only to find that she looked terribly sad with tears streaming down her face. She was standing right beside his chair, so he took hold of her hand and squeezed it. Molly squeezed back and gave him a wobbly, inauthentic smile. She let go a moment later and John turned back to Mycroft.

"'To George Lestrade,'"

_It's Greg, you idiot_, John thought automatically.

"- apologies, Greg, it seems he cannot keep your first name in his memory for any length of time - 'my remaining store of nicotine patches which John has yet to discover, in a hidden compartment beneath my sock index, should he encounter problems which require any number of patches when he can no longer consult me.'"

_DAMN IT_, John thought. No wonder he'd been so protective of his stupid sock index. And that resolved what he'd meant by _ultimately futile_.

"'To the authorities of Scotland Yard, one copy of each of my frivolous studies on crime solving, unless happily they shall feel they have outgrown the need for the elementary suggestions of an amateur detective.'" That made John smile a bit.

"'To my good brother, Mycroft Holmes, the family vacation home which was bequeathed to me,'"

_You had a vacation home and you never told me, Sherlock?_ John thought.

And since apparently Sherlock didn't shut up even when dead, John could plainly hear Sherlock's response in his head: _It never came up._

It was obvious why he didn't choose to live there: 221B was probably closer to the heart of London, to the action and the murder and his work. _You could have bloody well told me, though, we could have gone on vacation at some point_, John thought.

_What on earth would I do on vacation, John? No, I'll tell you what I'd do: die of boredom, that's what._

_Too late. You're already dead of hitting the pavement_, John's brain thought before he could stop it, and he wrenched his focus back to what Mycroft was saying before he could let it register.

"' - which he will be agreeably surprised to find, even after the previous bequests, to be not inconsiderable, and which will enable him, I hope, to take a much needed holiday from governmental works to surroundings more congenial than those of the Diogenes Club; in the expectation that' oh, God..." Mycroft made the face that meant he found something distasteful, which he was extremely good at. John expected Mycroft had gotten plenty of opportunities to perfect it, growing up with Sherlock. John smiled the tiniest bit as Mycroft heaved a sigh and then reluctantly continued. "' - in the expectation that he will remain celibate for the rest of his natural life - and unnatural too, for that matter.'" John started giggling uncontrollably, which set off the others, as Mycroft smiled in a strained sort of way and finished, "'Sherlock Holmes.'"

"Teasing you even after he's dead," John said once he'd regained his composure, grinning at Mycroft even as something broke inside him at saying aloud that Sherlock was dead.

"Some things never change," Mycroft said.

"May I um, may I request a copy of the will?" John asked.

"Of course," Mycroft said, and then carried on with legal matters, and John could hear Sherlock in his head saying _Boring_ and _Dull_ and he didn't know how to accept that he'd never hear Sherlock's complaints again.


End file.
